Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained
by WhitethornWolf
Summary: For the character alphabet meme on Tumblr. Assorted drabbles concerning Eilin, not in chronological order.
1. A is for Aedan

The altar is lit with three candles, and they've been burning so long the wax has melting all over their holders. Smoke mixes with the incense Mother Mallol is burning, and the pungent smell tickles Eilin's nose.

She likes it best in here. The chapel is a place of solace, where she finds the dark and the quiet comforting, and she can say her prayers with no-one but Andraste to hear them. It seems a world away from the noise and activity of the castle.

There's something different about her home today, something she can't put a finger on-sadness permeates the stone passageways and infects everyone it comes across, until even the servants look sad and weary.

Mother is ill, she knows that, and even the servants won't let her in her parents' room to see her, despite her pleas and demands. They say she is 'indisposed' and Father has given them instructions not to let her into the nursery or the bedchambers.

But Fergus is allowed in, Eilin wants to argue, but of course it would be pointless, so she tries to cajol Oriana into letting her see Mother.

If she knew how stubborn her brother's wife could be, she needn't have bothered.

She only begins to become really suspicious when, after three days, Father asks her not to go to the chapel. Mother Mallol is busy today, he says, and hasn't the time for Eilin's lesson. Except Mother Mallol is never too busy for Eilin-she'd even said so once, when Eilin suddenly wanted to hear the _entire _story of Andraste in the middle of lunch-and the request makes her suspicious.

Surely...surely Mother is not _really_ ill, is she? If she was very sick with something like the plague, or a wasting illness...they would let Eilin see her, would they not? She may be twelve years old, but she's not an idiot, or a _baby_. If Mother was going to die she had a right to know.

So during the midday meal she sneaks off to the chapel. Mercifully, Mother Mallol is nowhere to be found, and there are no guards at the door either. Her skirts brush the pews as she trots up the aisle, glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure no-one was coming.

There is a small box on the altar, decorated with pretty patterns. Eilin presses fingers to its side and studies the letters carved into the dark wood.

_Aedan. _

Aedan was a boy's name. How very curious.

Eilin lifts the lid gently, careful not to knock over the candles, and peers inside.

At first she thinks the baby is a doll; he is so tiny and fragile-looking. She touches the pallid little hands lying on the linen he's wrapped in, repulsed and fascinated by the coldness of his skin.

She isn't sure what she expected, some kind of secret maybe-but she wasn't expecting _this_.

A heavy hand falls on her shoulder, and she jumps guiltily.

"I knew you would find your way here sooner or later."

Cringing, she braces herself for the stern look and the inevitable lecture about how she was asked not to come here and how disobedience does not become a teyrn's daughter-but Father says nothing, and instead draws her closer to him. He doesn't look surprised at the baby lying in the box, which only confirms her suspicion that he had known all along.

He is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen; perfect in only the way a newborn is, and she falls in love immediately.

But he is so _still_, and her heart clenches in her chest at the sight of him, bringing hot tears to her eyes. he knows now, with painful realisation, just why Mother has been ill-why Father has been keeping her out of the nursery.

Gently, Father's finger brushes the baby's nose and traces the shape of his lips.

"Was I that small?" Eilin asks tremulously.

"No, pup," Father says. He seems about to say more-maybe the rebuke she is waiting for-but then he makes a sound, like the words are stuck in his throat. His eyes glitter in the candle-light, and the expression on his face scares her.

She wants to comfort Father; to tell him that everything will be alright, like Mother says to her whenever she is afraid. But that's her brother in that box, and she isn't sure she believes it herself. So she simply hugs him tight, and weeps with him.


	2. B is for Birthright

Two months of traveling with Alistair and if Eilin knew anything, it was that he was almost easier to read than a book. In a good mood he chattered endlessly about anything and everything, from imitating Morrigan behind her back to observing the merchants passing them on the road, to telling her what he knew of the Grey Wardens and darkspawn.

She'd never seen him lose his temper and rarely heard him raise his voice, except when he and Morrigan were bickering (after which he sulked, as Leliana put it). But since they left Redcliffe's chantry with Bann Teagan's warning, the tension had grown between them, and she knew the reason for it. She knew well why he was angry, and it made her angry because part of her felt somewhat guilty. She wasn't a bloody king's bastard, but there was no real reason for her to keep her own parentage from him. Privacy was a distant memory; something she used to have the luxury of, along with clean clothes and a bed without stones and crawling things.

She was never terribly subtle, and cold silence was more than she could bear. So when they were walking up to the mill to see one of Redcliffe's knights, she stopped and crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one hip.

"You're angry with me."

For a moment Alistair looked startled, and one eyebrow quirked in his usual manner.

"I'm not angry," he said after a pause. "I'm just...surprised that you kept your...uh...birthright from me. I thought we were friends."

"Oh, don't be like that," Eilin snapped, rolling her eyes. "I kept it from you because it was easier on both of us. Do you think I like talking about my dead family?"

He moved closer to allow a disgruntled merchant pass behind him. Eilin tilted her chin, swallowing hard from the lump in her throat, her stomach fluttering at the nearness of him.

"It's true, then?" he murmured.

"It is." She stepped back and wrapped her arms around her middle, hugging herself, and wished they were back at camp in the dead of night. Sometimes it was easier to speak your secrets into the darkness. "I didn't want anyone to know. Not even you."

Alistair's expression was pure puzzlement. "But _why?_"

_Because they would look at me like you're doing right now_, she wanted to say. _Because saying it happened would make it real. Because I dream of it every night, and I don't want to think of it during the day._

But of course he wouldn't understand, so she opened her mouth and began to talk.


	3. C is for Courtship

9:28 Dragon Age, 3 Solace

_To the incomparable Lady Eilin Cousland, Scanlan Wulff of West Hills sends greetings and sincere good wishes._

_My dearest lady, as it is you who are often so forthright in your speech and manner (a manner which, I am told, is much admired by your friends and peers), allow me to demonstrate the same frankness in kind._

_You have been on my mind following our last meeting, and though I cross my heart with shame at the memory of what transpired, I cannot allow this cold silence to continue. You have become dear to me during our correspondence in these past few months, and as a friend, I feel you deserve an apology, and indeed an apology have I ever meant more._

_It is my deepest wish that you will read my letter and know in your heart the sincerity in the words which I have written. On that night in Denerim I would blame the heat, the wine or the loveliness of your visage, but I fear that will not regain the favour I have lost by my unforgivable behaviour, and a faintness overcomes me at the memory of your stricken expression, and my heart aches at the thought that I was the cause of your anger and sorrow._

_I beseech you to not cast me from your affections, but to recognize in me the remorse for my actions and the hope to change for the better._

_I hope in time to earn your forgiveness and beg you to reply at your earliest convenience. May the Maker watch over you and keep you safe._

_Kindest regards,_

_Scanlan Wulff_

9:28 Dragon Age, 12 August

_To Scanlan Wulff of West Hills, Lady Eilin Cousland sends reluctant greetings._

_A beautifully worded apology letter, ser, and if I had not been previously informed of your father's instructions to write me, I may have been quite touched at your sincerity. Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to reply as if these words were indeed written by your own hand, and as you seem so fond of my frank manner, I shall henceforth be frank with you._

_In regards to our last meeting, I will admit that perhaps my reaction to your advance was slightly overzealous (perhaps I shall also blame the wine; while an excellent vintage from His Majesty's cellar, it is known to make a person quite aggressive)._

_I shall also concede that a knee planted into a man's groin is a rather crude way of subduing unwanted invasion of privacy. I assure you that if I had been in a position to do so, I would have rather preferred a warning cut or two with a knife. Alas, being in a compromising position at the time, I was forced to choose the less honourable option. As doing so is less dishonourable than taking advantage of an unwilling woman, I confess myself unable to feel much remorse over my actions._

_As loathe as I am to remind you, I do believe both my father, Teyrn Bryce Cousland and His Majesty, King Cailan spoke with you privately following the event, and I recall being informed you had been further instructed not to seek contact with myself until such time as I desire it. And I can assure you, Scanlan, I do not desire it._

_I hope that your manhood heals in time, though perhaps a persistent ache will remind you of the consequences of your overeagerness in the future._

_Kind regards,_

_Lady Eilin Cousland_


	4. D is for Distraction

Watching Alistair talk was a habit she'd picked up during their travels, and it was one she tried hard to hide from the others. Not that it was anybody's business whom she chose to observe-even if rather closely-but still. It was a pleasant distraction, and nothing more, but she would prefer it stay a secret distraction all the same.

She was fast learning that when he wanted to, he really had a way with words-but she found herself far more interested in watching the quirks of his eyebrows and the tug of a smile at his mouth while he spoke. The glances he kept throwing in her direction only served to draw her attention further away from the blades she was supposed to be sharpening.

They could wait. There was still an hour before they had to move out, and she could have her fun for now.

"You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?"

Of course, the only one in the party Eilin could rely on to notice her observation was Wynne.

Eilin forced an expression of innocent curiosity on her face, and as if to prove the point, began to unwrap her oilstone.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You needn't pretend," the old mage replied, with a chuckle of amusement. "Your blushing suggests otherwise. You know I'm speaking of you an Alistair. Do you think we haven't noticed the doe-eyed looks he gives you?"

Doe-eyed was a bit of an exaggeration, Eilin thought, not a word she'd use to describe them. Intense, maybe. _Smouldering _even, if she was in the mood for theatrics.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she said.

"It might be," Wynne said cryptically. She shut her book and sat down on the log beside Eilin. "I wanted to speak to you about your relationship."

Maker, she wasn't going to give her the 'talk', was she? That one meeting with Mother was enough-more than enough, in fact, to last a lifetime.

"Alistair is a fine lad," Wynne said, and Eilin made herself pay attention. "Skilled in battle, but inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt."

"You're not-"

Eilin shut her mouth, frowned, then dared a sideways glance. Wynne wore the exact same expression she'd seen many times on her own mother, and it made her want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. "Wait. What about me? You're not worried that _I_ might get hurt?"

"I am more concerned about Alistair, if truth be told. You are young and used to having men attracted to you, no?"

I think you need your eyes checked, Eilin wanted to say, but she settled for laying her sword aside and turning to face the old mage.

"Is that all you wanted to say? That you think I'd hurt Alistair?"

"Not deliberately," Wynne replied, calm in the face of the younger woman's rising annoyance. "You are both Grey Wardens, and he is the son of a king. You both have responsibilities that supersede your personal desires."

"You mean that he is the heir to the throne. I know that. I was the first to know in our group, actually."

"Then you should know more than anyone the dangers of..._entanglement_." Wynne's voice became sharp, provoked by Eilin's deepening scowl. "Love is ultimately selfish, and demands you put one person above all others. What would you do if you had to make the choice between saving Alistair and saving everyone else, hm?"

Eilin had a sudden, insane urge to laugh, but settled for a decidedly unlady-like snort. "Ha! You're joking, aren't you? Please tell me you're joking."

Maker, she didn't even know Wynne's eyebrows could shoot up that high.

"You're not joking, are you? Are we actually having this conversation? We are, aren't we?"

This was all so ridiculous, and _wrong_; it shouldn't be Wynne sitting here and lecturing her about relationships-if one could call a few kisses a relationship-it should be Mother making her blush and stammer and pray for the ground to swallow her up, and anyway, who said anything about love? Getting ahead of herself, wasn't she?

_Really_.

When at last she'd swallowed enough of her anger to speak, she made sure to choose every word carefully-she really didn't want to offend the old woman, after all, especially when the old woman in question was a mage and really very good at setting things on fire.

"I don't love him," she said. "I really don't. No, not really. He's just...just..._Alistair_. And I can end it whenever I want. But I'm not going to."

And suddenly with that one sentence, determination flooded her.

"I'm not going to," she repeated, and stood up.

Alistair stood up immediately as she marched towards him, misinterpreting the reason for her grim expression. Such was their habit after months on the road; weekly attacks by Loghain's men, darkspawn or desperate bandits made them paranoid.

"What's wro-"

She cut him off by grabbing the hand reaching for his sword, and pulling him towards her, lacing her fingers with his.

"Come on," she said, and the surprise on his face made her grin wickedly. "Let's go somewhere quieter."

Damn their conventions, she thought, as they disappeared into the trees. She was a grown woman, and he was not some trump card. They could die on the end of a darkspawn sword at any time, so what was the point of denying herself some solace? Very little, she surmised, and she had no doubt Alistair agreed; for all his surprise at being accosted so suddenly, he seemed eager enough to continue what she'd started. And when his mouth descended on hers, she forgot all about her argument with Wynne. A distraction he may be, but it was a welcome one.


	5. E is for Expectations

_"Marry?_" Eilin exclaimed, so loudly even the servants stared at her. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Your eighteenth birthday has come and gone," Eleanor replied, exchanging a glance with her husband across the dining table. "Your father and I were thinking it was past time we found a husband for you."

"And where was I when this discussion took place?" Eilin demanded, stabbing a piece of bacon with her fork and glaring at Fergus when he snorted. Oriana laid a hand on his arm, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. Oren stuffed a forkful of food in his mouth and glanced between them, eyes bright with curiosity.

_Maker, why did they have to bring this up in front of the entire family?_ Eilin thought, watching as her father reached for the fruit bowl.

"It was only last night," Bryce said, clearing his throat. "I thought perhaps one of-"

"Do not say Arl Wulff's sons," she warned him. "Not after what happened last summer-"

"-Bann Reginalda's son Cade," he finished calmly. Grabbing a pear from the fruit bowl, he cut it in half and passed the rest to Eleanor. "He's about your age. Perhaps a year younger."

"He hasn't seen the sun in about seven years, Father! You think I don't know who he is? I'm not marrying some pasty-faced whelp who doesn't know the sharp end of a sword."

"What's a whelp?" Oren interrupted.

"Your aunt is being childish," Eleanor said, smiling fondly at the boy. "Cade might not be the most proficient with a blade, but that doesn't mean he is not someone you can marry."

"Well, what of Arl Howe's son, then?" Bryce said, when Eilin shook her head. "Surely he can't be so terrible? I'm told he's good with a sword."

His daughter glared daggers at him. "I would rather marry my hound."

"By all means," Fergus said humorously. "With the way you talk to him, I'd say you're not too far off."

"Brother, you're so very clever. Do shut up." Without pause, Eilin put down her fork and folded her arms. "I don't see why I have to marry at all."

"Because it is expected of you," Eleanor replied sharply. "You know this."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Eilin struggled to keep her temper under control.

"I know it is _expected_ of me," she said in a low voice, her jaw set. "I know that. But I don't even want to marry. Why should I? You have your heir. Fergus will be teyrn after you, and Oren after him. Why should it matter what I do?"

The hall fell silent. Her parents exchanged surprised glances, and Fergus raised his eyebrows in a look so reminiscent of Father that she would have laughed any other time. Right now, it made her angry.

Eleanor put down her fork and regarded her daughter with a stern look.

"You are as much a part of this family as everyone at this table," she said. "Your marriage - or lack thereof - concerns us as much as it does you. It concerns us plenty."

"It doesn't concern me at all!" Eilin snapped. Shoving her plate away, she pushed her chair back roughly and stood. "I'm not a prize! I won't be sold off to some stupid noble's son to breed like a bloody mabari bitch!"

_"Eilin!"_

Whirling, she strode from the hall, pushing roughly past a startled servant. She slammed the door behind her and rounded the corner, slumping against the wall, closing her eyes with a sigh. That display would cost her. Father would forgive her the outburst - it was one of many over the years, truth be told - but Mother would not forgive so easily. She hated outbursts, especially in front of the servants.

But marriage! Really. Being a lady was all well and good, but was there to be nothing more to her life than children and needlework? The thought made her shudder.

_I want my life to be my own_, she thought unhappily, and tilted her head back to stare at the sky. _Why is that hard to understand?_


	6. F is for Friend

The chantry in Denerim was a far cry from Castle Cousland's stuffy little chapel. It was large and crowded where she was used to solitude; it also stank of sweat and incense.

Eilin plucked nervously at the folds of her dress as she walked down the aisle between pews. She felt naked without her armour and sword, even if she knew the guards were unlikely to look for her in here. Caution was second nature now, it seemed, and was necessary in a place like Denerim - even being in the city was like sticking your head in a mabari's mouth and hoping it wouldn't bite down.

When Zevran had apologetically woken her with the news of Leliana's disappearance, she'd been concerned rather than angry. Friends and allies were in short supply for even a wrongly accused traitor, and she could hardly afford to drive people away with suspicion. After the events of the last two days, what happened with Marjolaine...Eilin understood. Orlesian bards were far more subtle than darkspawn. She put on her 'city clothes', consisting of a rumpled dress and tattered shoes stuffed in her pack, and went searching.

She didn't have to look far. Leliana sat in a pew in the centre, too far for the priestesses to catch a glimpse of her face, but too near to cause much suspicion. She was wearing her Chantry robes and singing quietly, her voice almost a breathy whisper.

_"The one who repents... who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world..."_

"She shall know true peace," Eilin murmured with her, and sat down.

"There is peace in the Maker's house, is there not?" Leliana said, more to her lap than to Eilin. "I find the Chant soothing."

Soothing was not a word Eilin would use to describe the constant background murmur that grated on her ears, but it wasn't really necessary to disagree.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Leliana glanced at her in surprise, her eyes watery.

"I can't get what happened out of my head," she admitted after a moment.

Eilin nodded. "About Marjolaine?"

"Yes." Leliana twisted a kerchief around her fingers, frowning. She didn't meet Eilin's eyes. "Also, about what she said. What if...what if she was right?"

"She was just trying to make you doubt yourself," Eilin said. "We backed her into a corner. She was afraid. People like her will always try to manipulate those they fear."

"People like her," Leliana repeated, and met her gaze for the first time. "People like me, you mean."

"You are not Marjolaine," Eilin told her as if that were the final word on the topic.

"Aren't I? I could have been wrong. About everything. Since I left the cloister...everything we've done-hunted men down, killed them, part of me loves it." Leliana blinked and dropped her eyes again, mouth turning down at the corners. "It invigorates me. I...some part of me enjoys it." She sighed. "Maybe I should have stayed in the Chantry."

"If you'd stayed, you wouldn't have such marvelous adventures with us," Eilin replied lightly, nudging her shoulder. "Living in a cloister can't be as exciting as life on the road, can it? Camping in the forest, weekly bandit raids, Alistair's lamb stew..."

Leliana grinned. "I'm not sure _exciting_ is how I would describe Alistair's stew. It is rather..."

"Terrible?"

"Oh, you are so mean! No! It is a little...simple."

"Simple is not a bad thing. Our Fereldan cuisine is too uncivilised for your sensitive Orlesian stomach, admit it."

They hid their giggles behind their hands as a priestess gave them a disapproving glare from nearby.

"You are a true friend," Leliana murmured eventually. "Marjolaine was not. She was self-serving, cruel...she loved me when she could use and control me. I suppose it hurt to realise that."

"It's never easy," Eilin admitted, and pulled the other woman closer, squeezing her arm. "But Marjolaine can't hurt you anymore. And you always have me, you know that."

Leliana rested her cheek on Eilin's shoulder. "I know," she murmured, though her voice still held a tinge of sadness.


	7. G is for Grimoire

_I shouldn't have come here on my own._

The thought looped around and around her mind as she picked her way through the swamp, grimacing as her boots sank into the sodden ground. The air was thick and humid, and her clothes clung to her skin. She didn't remember it being this damp and smelly, though she was probably too distracted by grief when she'd bumbled through here seven months ago. Or maybe she only noticed it now because she wanted to be distracted.

_Flemeth must die, _Morrigan had said with as much conviction as Eilin had ever seen from her, and Maker knew the thought of throwing herself at a powerful, possibly ancient, witch didn't bring her any joy. But Morrigan was her friend and it was the only thing she'd ever really asked for - and the least Eilin could do was try.

She'd slipped away from camp with the excuse of hunting, even taking Zevran's battered old bow with her for appearances. She'd stashed it just outside the camp and hoped desperately she'd be able to find it later - or that she would be alive to retrieve it. She had to wonder, as she picked her way across the swamp, if she'd always been this insane or whether the stress of the Blight had finally driven her around the bend. Seeking out Flemeth was a dangerous enough plan, but confronting her alone was suicidal.

The old hut was just as she remembered - ancient, weathered, half-choked with ivy and rotting moss. Flemeth sat in a chair by the fire pit, stitching a robe thrown over her knees. Her white, wispy hair and bent head made her look like nothing more than an old woman, and Eilin hesitated, relaxing the grip on her sword.

"And so you return," Flemeth said without looking up, and she jerked in surprise. "Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, is she not?"

Swallowing her fear, Eilin stepped onto the path to the hut. "I've come to talk. Nothing more."

"So you say." The witch finally set aside her robe and glanced up, studying the other woman with piercing eyes, and crooked a finger at her. "Come closer, Grey Warden, so we may … talk."

An uncomfortable weight settled on Eilin's chest, and her skin tingled unpleasantly at the wash of magic over her. She took a wobbly step forward, then another.

_No!_ she cried silently, trying with all her might to dig her heels into the ground. Her body ignored the resistance, her legs carrying her forward along the path towards the witch.

Flemeth lowered her hand and Eilin smothered a gasp as the weight lifted. She stood not three feet from the witch, still gripping her sword so tightly it hurt. To draw it would surely provoke the witch to attack, but oh, how _badly _she wanted to.

"There's a smart lass," Flemeth said as Eilin let her hand drop. "Now, what has Morrigan told you? What little plan has she hatched this time?"

It was useless to refuse her an answer; the witch would probably just...extract it from her mind, or something equally unpleasant. "She knows how you extend your unnatural lifespan."

"That she does. The question is, do you?"

The question threw Eilin off guard, much as she tried not to show it.

"It's what she told me," she replied simply. "A tale of how you have lived for so long."

Flemeth stood up and moved closer; Eilin backed away, hand tight on her sword.

"It is an old tale," the witch said, her eyes glittering dangerously. "One that even Flemeth has told. The ending, though, is up to you. Do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids, or does the tale take a different turn?"

"That depends," Eilin said warily, and backed up another step. "Don't come any closer."

"Oh, I won't have to."

The air crackled with energy. Drawing her sword, Eilin took another step backwards. There was a flash of movement at the edge of her vision, and she darted to one side on instinct.. She wasn't quick enough to avoid the tree branch that yanked her upwards roughly, sending a stab of pain through her arm. Rough bark scraped her sides and the ground fell away from her. Panicking, she thrashed as branches curled around her legs and arms, pinioning her so tightly she could barely move.

Flemeth waved her hand and the grip tightened until Eilin cried out. Twisting, she tried to reach for the dagger at her hip - she may as well have been shackled with iron, for all the good it did.

"Damn you," she rasped, wincing as the grip on her limbs tightened. "You think I want to do this? I have no choice. I need Morrigan."

"Do you?" the witch looked amused. "As it happens, so do I. You, on the other hand..."

"If you don't need me, then kill me." It was a poor bluff, and the tremble in her voice gave her away. "What are you waiting for? Make your point."

"Kill you?" Flemeth repeated, and tapped her fingers against her chin. "Tempting, but no. Ferelden needs its Grey Wardens, even the foolish ones."

"It was loyalty that brought me here."

"Loyalty, foolishness...I see little difference."

Flemeth twitched her hand and the branches twisted. Eilin swallowed hard against the sick fear that bubbled in her stomach - but the tree only lowered her so her face was inches from the old woman's. Shaking, she tried not to stare directly into her eyes.

"You waste your time," Flemeth said, and her voice held no trace of its usual mocking tone. "Morrigan knows nothing of loyalty. I should know - she's my daughter."

"She's better than you think." Eilin gave up trying to twist out of the tree's grasp and slumped, defeated. "And I can't do this without her - without any of them."

She would be naive to think that Flemeth would be moved to pity by mere words - or anything, really. The witch seemed to be considering her words, though; thin brows furrowed and sharp eyes that saw far too much.

Then the branches loosened their hold; caught by surprise, Eilin fell heavily, landing on her leg at an awkward angle. It was a good two or three foot drop, and for a moment she simply shook, biting the inside of her cheek to swallow the gasps that pain forced from her throat.

"Take my grimoire, then, and tell her I am slain," Flemeth said. She stood close by, watching the Warden as she climbed to her feet, leaning heavily on the now stationary tree trunk.

Eilin glared at her suspiciously. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

She felt under her leggings for her dagger, and the witch chuckled. "Peace, Grey Warden. I have no intention of harming you."

"And what will you do? Just … disappear?"

"I will leave, and you will not see me again." Flemeth turned her back on Eilin and stepped toward the trees. "Will Morrigan? Who knows."

Frozen to the spot, Eilin stared into the trees long after the witch had disappeared, until a splatter of cold raindrops brought her to her senses.

It was mid-afternoon before she returned to camp; drenched to the skin, limping, and clutching a rabbit she'd managed to shoot by some miracle - and with the grimoire tucked under one arm, wrapped in her cloak. She met Morrigan's eyes across the camp and felt the guilt rush through her at the witch's look of relief, and wondered what would happen if she ever found out. There was always a price to pay for betrayals, even the necessary ones.


	8. H is for Home

"Are you alright?"

It wasn't unlike Alistair to pick up on her moods now, and if it was anyone else she probably would have snapped at them in reflex. Eilin settled instead for tossing another piece of wood on the fire and muttering something about how she was _just tired but totally fine_ when it was painfully obvious she was not.

"You know, you're a really bad liar," he said, and nudged her knee gently. She scooted over to let him sit on the bedroll they shared, and sighed. She hated second watch usually, but if nightmares were what awaited her in sleep, maybe it was better she stayed awake.

"I'm just tired," she muttered, leaning against him.

"Uh-huh. I told you. Bad liar." He held up his hands as she glared at him. "Wait - don't hit me, I bruise easily!"

Eilin's face fell. "Am I really that obvious?"

"Well, maybe. You've been short with everyone all day."

"Have I?" She vaguely remembered getting cross at Zevran for pestering Morrigan, and practically yelling at Dannar for getting under her feet. She sighed again and stood up, moving to the edge of camp. They'd had no choice but to camp on a rise, so the coastlands and the northern bannorn sprawled below in darkness.

"Do you see that hill?" she asked, and pointed at the tallest on the horizon, outlined faintly in the moonlight. "That's the border of the West Hill bannorn. Highever is just over that reach."

"Ah."

She couldn't look at him in the silence that followed. Stupid really, to be upset over being so close. She wondered if Howe was living in the castle, if the guards had looted her possessions. What had happened to her parents'...bodies.

But there was no point gazing into the horizon and imagining what her home would look like now; it would only bring her pain and distraction. So she turned away and sat back down, staring at her folded hands.

"Do you miss it?" Alistair asked. There was a brief pause, then he added, "I suppose that was a stupid question."

She sighed and tucked her head in the crook of his shoulder.

"Sometimes I dream about returning, and I'll feel like there's nothing I want more. But in reality? I don't know if there's any place I can call home, unless it's with the Grey Wardens. With...you."

The crackling of the campfire covered the pause that followed. Then his arm slid around her shoulders, and his free hand tipped her chin up.

"You know, you're getting pretty good at this," she whispered, when they separated. "I might have to keep you around."

"I thought you might."

She put her arms around him. "Well, we make a pretty good team, don't we?"

"A team? I like the sound of that."


	9. I is for Impression

Denerim is the sort of place one can easily get lost in. It's all winding alleyways and streets crowded with merchants' wagons and brightly painted carriages; people trampling the dirt and winding through the traffic as they go about their business.

Eilin watches the bustle from the market square. It's taken a whole morning of carefully executed pleading to get Mother to let her outside for the afternoon, and she's determined not to waste time - even if Mother insisted Father's guards accompany her.

She doesn't even know _why_. She's twelve, not five, and not likely to get into much trouble. Not in the markets, anyway.

A merchant selling brightly coloured dolls catches her eye and she makes a beeline for the stall. An elbow sideswipes her and sends her staggering forward, barely managing to regain her footing. It's a boy, a skinny street urchin all dirty hands and knobby knees. He stammers an apology while making a hasty retreat back into the crowd.

The merchant calls her 'my lady' and asks if she's seen anything she likes, but her mind keeps wandering back to the boy. She's seen children like him in the Highever markets. They're quick little creatures with nimble fingers who can cut your purse and be halfway out of the market before you realise it.

_They're just hungry and desperate,_ Fergus would say, _and doing what they can to survive._

Eilin isn't stupid; she knows what happens to children like that, and she's unsurprised when she feels for her pouch of coins and finds nothing but frayed string.

Furious at herself, she whirls and dives into the crowd, pulling up her skirts - ignoring the scandalized looks - and tucking most of them into the breeches she wears underneath. The boy isn't far ahead of her and moves fluidly through the crowd, skirting around guards and brushing past women and children. She sees those fingers dipping into pockets and shouts at him.

"Stop!"

In hindsight it might have been better to catch him by surprise, or call a city guard. But Eilin has never been terribly subtle, and the last thing she wants is to lose him. So she charges for him as he turns, blanches, and runs.

Boys are so stupid.

She pursues him doggedly, twisting and weaving through the throng of people, shoving past bawling children and nearly knocking over a fat dwarf carrying what looks like a shaved rabbit.

The boy turns sharply and she follows, almost skidding in the dust. He runs into an alley that smells like urine and refuse, then turns to face her reluctantly. The alley ends in a brick wall that's impossible to scale - the only exit is behind her and he knows it.

"Give me my coin purse!" she demands. "You're a thief. I know you took it, and I want it back!"

The boy lunges forward and makes a break for the exit; Eilin blocks his way and shoves him back, fists clenched and face twisted in anger.

"I want my coin purse back!" she shouts at him, stamping her foot. "I'll tell the guards you took it!"

She anticipates the boy's second lunge at her, but the punch catches her by surprise. Dirty knuckles slam into the side of her face, her cheek and eye absorbing most of the blow, and she grabs him around the waist even as she falls backward. He tumbles mid-leap, twisting wildly, and grabs a fistful of her hair, thrashing as she kicks him in the shins. They roll in the dirt, scratching and biting and pulling hair. For all his skinniness he's stronger than he looks, and he's far less gentle than Fergus. But she's older and has a few tricks up her sleeve, and she's twisting his arm and pushing his face into the dirt when strong arms lift her bodily away from him.

Without thinking she thrusts her elbow back and the blow hits metal with a thud, and she twists wildly as the guard pins her arms behind her back.

"Enough!"

There's authority in that voice and she stops struggling. Only then does she realise that there's a half-dozen guards surrounding her and the boy is twisting in the grip of one, his expression wildly panicked, bleeding from his nose and mouth. There's a coppery taste in her mouth; her lip is split, and her eye is throbbing.

The guards aren't like the ones she's seen in the marketplace; they are wearing gilded plate armour, almost fancier than Father's suit of silverite, and the engraving on their breastplates look familiar.

The man who had spoken fixes one of the guards with a look; the type of look Father gives her when he expects an explanation. He's heavily armoured in a suit that looks far too fancy for their surroundings, and his eyes are stern. There's another man with him, tall with blonde hair and wearing fine clothes that seem out of place in the stinking alley. He too looks familiar. Maybe he's one of Father's friends, Eilin thinks, and relaxes so the guard will loosen his hold.

"It's just a couple of street urchins, my lord," the guard holding the boy says.

"I'm not a street urchin!" Eilin says fiercely. She twists out of the guard's grip and points at the boy. "He is! He took my coin purse!"

The blonde man gives her an amused look. "And you took it upon yourself to chase him down?"

"It was my grandmother's," she says defensively, scowling at the titters from the guards. "I don't care about the coin. Your Grace," she adds as an afterthought.

"Your Majesty," the stern man corrects her.

Eilin feels the blood draining from her face; she shoots a look of panic at the two men, then drops to one knee.

_Of course it's the king,_ she groans inwardly, thoughts racing to come up with a way to get out of this mess. _Oh, what would Mother say..._

"Up you get, girl," the king says, and she shakily rises. She looks anywhere but him, touching dirty fingers to her bleeding lip, and hears the stern man instruct the guard to search the boy. Surely he can't be Teyrn mac Tir? He must be if he's with the king, she thinks, and her cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment.

They come up with her coin purse moments later. The guards are rough with him, and Eilin cringes at the expression on his face as they hand the pouch back to her. Suddenly it doesn't seem like such a triumph.

"What are you going to do with him?" she asks as the guards pull the boy upright. He's crying, still twisting against their grip. She finds it hard to look at him.

"The boy is a thief," the stern man says. "He'll be arrested."

Eilin steps forward before she knows what she's doing. "No! I don't want that."

Maker, but she's never seen anyone's eyebrows go up that high - except for Mother's, of course. The man - who she's sure is Teyrn mac Tir - stares at her oddly and says, "What are you talking about, girl? Is or is he not a thief?"

"He is, but...I don't want him to be arrested." Eilin glances at the king, cheeks burning at the sound of the guards' snorts of laughter. "It's only coin. He can have it, if that's what he wants. I just care about the pouch."

They send the boy packing with two silvers from her coin pouch and a few new bruises, and they emerge back into the marketplace to a crowd of staring people, her father's guards among them.

"Lady Cousland!" one of them calls as she appears behind the king. She knows she looks a sight - hair in tangles, face bruised and swollen, lip bleeding and dress torn.

The king pauses, glances down at her, and raises his eyebrows.

"Lady Cousland?" he repeats.

He's a friend of Father's, Eilin suddenly remembers, and she has the grace to look abashed.

* * *

><p>"Of all the people," Eleanor says much later while bathing Eilin's face. "Of <em>all the people<em> you could encounter while - "

"Mother, I -"

"- tousling with a street urchin, of all things -"

"He had my coin purse!"

"I hope you at least remembered your manners." Eleanor wrings the cloth out in the basin balancing on her knees and turns Eilin's face to the light.

"I did. You'd be ever so proud. I knelt and everything."

"I should be thankful for small mercies, then," Eleanor replies dryly. She dabs at Eilin's split lip with the cloth, holding her daughter's chin firmly as she shifts impatiently. "Sit still. And don't roll your eyes at me, young lady."

"He called me _spitfire_," Eilin says proudly, as Eleanor wrings the cloth out again. "And he said he would tell me about the battles he's been in tonight."

Eleanor grasps Eilin's chin and turns her so their gazes lock. "Now, I expect you to make a good impression tonight. A better impression," she adds, "than earlier. You don't have to be a shining example. Just mind your tongue and don't embarrass your father. Or me," she adds as an afterthought.


	10. J is for Joining

_The Old Gods will call to you,_

_From their ancient prisons they will sing._

_Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,_

_On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,_

_The first of My children, lost to night._

- Silence 3:6

"Why all these damned tests?"

The creak of metal and leather was amplified by the silence of twilight, and the sound grated on Eilin's ears. Ser Jory paced back and forth, stopping only to cast an impatient glance at the entrance to the building they stood in.

Once it was a temple. Now it was a crumbling ruin used for war council meetings, according to Daveth. The wind whistled through the gaping holes in the walls and cut through her thinning tunic. She clamped her hands around her torso, shutting her eyes and miserably cursing herself for not thinking to take more clothes from Highever.

"Have I not earned my place here?" the knight snapped, and threw a glance at the Grey Warden standing quietly in the corner. Alistair gave no sign that he'd noticed Ser Jory's glare, leaning against a crumbling column with an air of indifference that didn't convince Eilin in the slightest. He caught her staring and his lips curled upwards in the slightest of smiles, but there was pity in his eyes, and again she wondered just what this Joining entailed.

Biting back her irritation, she tuned out Jory's complaints and glanced over at the sturdy table set up in the centre of the old temple. An enormous chalice took up a sizeable corner of its surface, for some kind of ceremony, she guessed. But if that was the case, where were the other Wardens?

Daveth rolled his shoulders restlessly. "What do you think?"

She knew the question was directed at her, and turned to him with a sigh. "About what?"

"About what these tests are," he said. "Or d'you reckon they're just messing with us?"

Eilin shrugged. "I don't care why they do it."

The cutpurse's grin was mocking. "Eager to be done with it? Can't say I blame you."

Shaking her head, she turned away and blocked out the other recruits' argument. Test or no test, it made little difference to her. She'd wake up the next day and everything would still be the same. One test was not much to ask for compared to her life.

"At last we come to the Joining."

Eilin jumped, caught by surprise at Duncan's sudden appearance, and moved closer to the torch light. The Grey Warden stopped at the table and turned to face them. She'd never really seen him smile, but his expression was grave enough now to give her pause. Unexpectedly, sweat broke out on her palms and she glanced again at the chalice.

_A heavy price to pay,_ Duncan had said to her not twenty minutes ago. She was beginning to think he'd downplayed that part most of all.

"The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation," Duncan said into the silence, and gestured towards the table. "So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

"We're g-going to drink the blood of those creatures?" Ser Jory said falteringly, and even Daveth looked disgusted. Eilin remained silent.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us," Duncan replied. "As we did before you. This is the source of our power, and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint," Alistair said. He was staring at the ground, fingers toying with his belt. "We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon."

So she could die from this. The thought lingered in the back of her mind since yesterday; she'd been deliberately ignoring it. She knew the darkspawn taint was fatal if it got into your blood, but if you drank it? You'd die instantly, unless you...what would happen?

She didn't know, and she didn't want to know. But she had no choice.

"Daveth, step forward."

The man obeyed, back straight and chin lifted. He accepted the chalice from Duncan and hesitated only briefly before bringing it to his lips, grimacing. She had to admire the man's courage.

Duncan took the chalice and stepped back as Daveth shook his head, frowning, and pressed a hand to his forehead. She noticed Alistair take a step back out of the corner of her eye, and only had a split second to wonder before Daveth let out a howl that chilled her to her bones.

His shoulders jerked violently and one hand clamped over his neck in a death grip, blunt nails tearing at his skin.

"Maker's breath!"

Ser Jory backed up against the wall as Daveth crashed to his knees, skin a mottled purple and eyes rolled back into his head.

"I am sorry," Duncan said as the man crumpled.

A gust of wind blew through the old temple, ruffling the dead man's hair, and it was utterly silent.

Then the fear was back, clawing at Eilin's belly with icy fingers, and she threw Duncan a wild look. _Did he bring me all this way to die like that?_

"Step forward, Jory."

The knight tore his gaze from Daveth's body and backed away.

"B-but - I have a wife. A child! Had I known - "

"There is no turning back."

Jory reached for his greatsword and backed up another step. "You ask too much! There is no glory in this."

Duncan placed the chalice on the table and drew his sword slowly,dark eyes regretful.

Eilin had seen Duncan in action only twice; once when fleeing Highever, and another when they ran afoul of bandits just outside Lothering. She'd thought him fast then, but he moved with blinding speed to intercept Jory's swing. The knight's eyes were wide and panicked, and the terror showed stark and wild on his face. Duncan easily blocked his first strike and dodged the next. The force of the third slammed Jory against the wall.

Eilin didn't see the blade hit home, but she heard Jory's strangled gasp and saw the life leave his eyes.

"I am sorry," Duncan murmured, and stepped away. The knight crumpled, and the blood poured from the rent in his armour.

"Eilin."

The fear rose in her throat, turning her blood to ice. She glanced at Duncan, then Alistair. The young Warden was looking at Jory, his expression full of pity.

The chalice filled her vision.

"You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good."

Her stomach gave a rebellious heave as the liquid burned its way down her throat, and she almost dropped the chalice. Duncan tugged it from her hands and stepped back as she bent her head, covering her mouth and forcing herself to swallow several times - it was bad enough that she had to drink darkspawn blood at all, she thought, gasping, it would be worse if she vomited it back up.

The liquid hit her stomach and something flashed across her vision; she caught a glimpse of a golden eye and a sinous, serpentine body. She barely had time to register before pain rose like a fire in her belly.

Doubling over, she clutched at her stomach, clenching her teeth so tight they ached. The pain rose through her chest, and her throat began to tighten.

_Was this how Daveth felt?_ she thought in a sudden wild panic; her head thrown back and eyes rolling into her head. her knees gave way and the pain was too much, the pressure behind her eyes was unbearable. Then there was a flash of light and an answering stab of pain, and her blood burned and pulsed in her veins, moving in time with a heartbeat that was not hers, and she sank into darkness.

* * *

><p>She was in a tunnel - no, not a tunnel, a cave, and the walls were pulsing. Blue threaded rock all around her, a rumble from the deep earth itself, a sibilant hiss in the darkness, and a song she couldn't quite make out.<p>

_Come to me,_ a voice whispered, the words curling around her mind, and the music swelled, filling every corner of her mind.

A massive dragon in the skies, proud and terrible, and a sky laced with fire and stone. Veins of blue and an eye of liquid gold.

_Come to me._

The dragon looked at her - at her - and she'd never felt so small in her life, and she'd never seen anything so beautiful and terrible, but it was fading, and she reached out for it, fighting the blackness swirling around her -

Then clarity returned to her with a gust of wind that woke her, and she sat up with a startled cry.

Alistair and Duncan sat nearby, watching her quietly, and while that would have usually disturbed her, she felt some measure of relief to know she wasn't alone. And alive, even.

"It is finished," Duncan said. "Welcome."


	11. K is for King

There was something about Redcliffe and their meetings with Arl Eamon that always seemed to cause the most of their arguments. She knew he hated it here; hated walking through the castle and the memories it brought back, and she doubted he missed the way Lady Isolde looked at him.

And then there were Arl Eamon's plans.

She hadn't meant to agree with the arl outright, not in front of every single person in the hall. She'd planned to talk with Alistair about it first, to carefully introduce the plan she'd been formulating since their first visit to this place. But Eamon, _Maker damn him_, had pushed her - he'd put her on the spot, and how she disliked him for it.

She knew Alistair was furious with her. He'd barely spoken a word to her since their meeting with the arl, and even hours later on the road he walked ahead by himself, with a stiff posture and a cold silence that was impossible to miss. Not a good sign. She jogged ahead of the others to catch up to him, calling out his name. He didn't look back; scowling, she grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to a stop.

He turned quicker than she expected, forcing her to take a step back - though she may have done so at his expression anyway. Cold anger definitely didn't suit him.

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

His tone was clipped and terse, and it made the struggle to keep her temper all the more difficult. She kept a light pressure on his wrist; not that he would feel it through the armour, of course, it was purely force of habit that kept her fingers on his pulse point.

"I know you're angry-"

"Am I?" he snapped. "I can't _imagine_ why."

Eilin gave him a withering look. "Uh-huh. Just...listen to me for a moment. I know this is about what happened with Arl Eamon. I'm sorry, but -"

"Oh, you're sorry! Well, isn't that good to know. Really, I feel so much better."

Well. Evidently Alistair's sarcastic streak wasn't just for his jokes. Eilin stepped a little closer to him, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder. The others were fast catching up, and they didn't need to see this.

"I didn't want to just announce it," she said quietly. "The arl left me no choice."

"No choice?" Alistair scoffed, and finally pulled his hand away. "No, I'm not accepting that. You could have spoken for me, or- or told Eamon that I don't want to be king." His face twisted in anger. "Instead you supported him."

"In his own hall along with his brother and men in attendance!" she responded heatedly. "What else was I supposed to say? You know we need his support."

"But not to make me king!" He was shouting now, voice raised loud enough for the rest of their party to hear. "I never wanted that. You know I didn't, so don't pretend otherwise!"

"You think this is all about you?" Eilin shot back. "Grow up, Alistair! I'm trying to do what's best for everyone. And as you made the decision to let me lead-"

"Yes, well, that's one thing I'm starting to regret," he said quietly.

She could never hide her emotions from him, nor he from her - they knew each other far too well. She knew he regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth.

They still hurt.

She lifted her chin, lips pressed into a hard line and brows in an angry frown, stepping back from him. "I see."

Regret and stubbornness warred on his expression, but finally, he reached for her. "Eilin, I'm-"

"No," she interrupted. She swallowed hard, biting back the impulse to lash out with harsh words. "Don't. You've said it; don't think you can take it back."

This time she was the one who turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose and exhaling until she at least stopped scowling so heavily. And by the time Leliana and even Wynne came to question her about the argument, she was calm enough to send them off with a vague reference to her being tired.

Not that it was particularly noteworthy. She was always tired.


	12. L is for Loghain

I was twelve years old when I first met you, skinny and bleeding from a street urchin's fists, and I remember the way you looked at me. I did not know who to be more in awe of; you or the King, and I know you would have frowned upon my hero worship at least.

I knew a great deal about Loghain the hero and little about Loghain the man, and it was Loghain the man that intrigued me. A man like you does not simply fade into the background, however much he might wish it.

I was twelve years old, and I knew this. I do not remember much, but I remember a man who talked battle tactics over a dinner table, despite my mother's horror. I remember a man who took me seriously, and one does not forget that easily. After all, what child grew up not knowing of the Hero of River Dane?

I thought Ostagar suited you. A place so harsh, weathered by storm and snow and a thousand battles, its foundation steady and sure.

Maybe I am being poetic, but your presence gave the soldiers hope. You would have to be a fool not to realise that. You were many things, but a fool was not one of them.

I want to dismiss your actions as cruelty. It's easier for my companions to. Wynne believes you abandoned the king, and will not be convinced otherwise. Alistair hates you, and I suspect he always will. His loathing is a twisted, ugly thing, and I cannot blame him for it any more than I blame myself for mine.

After all, your crimes are not easily put aside. You abandoned hundreds of men to their deaths, your king amongst them. The royalist in me demands that he of all people should have been saved. The realist is reluctant to admit your actions had any reason behind them besides cowardice.

But for all my misgivings, I cannot excuse what you did. Your men hunted me and my companions like animals. You sent an assassin to do what your soldiers could not. And moreso, you took Arl Howe and elevated him. You repaid murder with honour and treachery with wealth. Even had I not thought you insane before, that alone would have convinced me. Only insanity keeps a rabid dog within arms' reach.

You and I will never have an accord, and I will never doubt that you deserved to pay for what you did. But Riordan was still right. We needed you alive, and I allowed you to die because of my weakness. I let you die because the alternative was to forsake the last thing I hold dear in this world, and I should never have put the regard of one man above an entire nation.

I wish Anora did not have to see your execution. There is nothing worse than watching your own father dying before your eyes. I would know.

You are beyond the concerns of the living, and it's impossible to turn back time. I must move past regret and do what needs to be done. I will not forget.


	13. M is for Mabari

Eilin hears the commotion on her way back from her morning lessons.

Her path takes her past the kennels, and the barking of dogs is a background noise she hardly notices these days. Most noble families have kennels, and her family is no exception - they love their dogs, like any good Fereldan.

Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she makes a detour. Mother Mallol can wait a few minutes, surely; it wasn't like the lesson wasn't terribly important.

She recognises the mabari in the last stall, a bitch named Haelia who was mated to Father's hound. It's breeding season, so the sounds of puppies playing fills the kennels - high-pitched squeals and yelps, and roly poly bodies tumbling in the straw. Haelia's puppies are round and ungainly, with rough coats and huge paws, and they crawl all over her. The sight makes Eilin laugh out loud.

"Would you like to see them, my lady?" the kennel master asks as he opens the stall door enough for her to enter. Suddenly there pups are all over her, nipping at the hem of her dress, jumping up and nearly bowling her over in their enthusiasm. She sits in the straw and they swarm her, snuffling and licking her ears until she shrieks with laughter.

"Enjoying yourself, darling?"

Father is watching her leaning over the stall, grinning in amusement at the sight. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and he looks far more dishevelled than she's used to seeing him. He reaches down and lifts one of the puppies, disentangling it from the folds of her dress.

"Fine fellows, aren't they?" he says, laughing as the pup licks his face. "My old girl's done well."

"They are quite...lively." Eilin reaches over, gently pushing two pups off her lap, and gives Haelia a scratch behind the ears, smiling as the mabari grunts in pleasure.

Father opens the stall door and slips inside, then to her surprise, sits down. The pup he was carrying crawls into Eilin's lap, licking at her fingers as she strokes his head.

"Don't you have things to do?" she asks. "I thought I saw Arl Bryland's seneschal outside the main hall a few hours ago. Don't let me distract you. Unless you want to be distracted, I suppose."

Father smiles at her, and gives her hair a gentle tug. "I always have time for my pups."

"A pity I'm not so roly poly then," she says.

"No, but you used to play with as much abandon." He leans over and scratches the ears of the puppy nestled in her lap. "This one likes you, I think."

"I shouldn't get attached," Eilin says, gazing at the pup as he wriggles and whines. "I know they won't stay. They'll leave Highever and live out their lives away from us."

"I think I can spare one pup out of the litter. He's yours."

Eilin bends over the puppy as he twitches in his sleep, and the smile spreads across her face.

"You spoil me, Father," she says finally. She can't stop stroking the coarse fur, smiling at the round belly rising and falling rapidly. "I can really keep him?"

"Really." Father gently pushes away a puppy determinedly gnawing on his boot. "Sometimes the things we get attached to leave us, and that's the way things are. But if you have something rare and precious, it's worth keeping for as long as you can."

This time it's him she smiles at, the grin gentled with affection and warmth.

"You needn't worry, Father. I'll be sticking around for a while yet."

They stay in the kennels all afternoon.


	14. N is for Nightmares

Eilin woke with a great gasp and a cry that burst from her chest before she could smother it.

The last vestiges of sleep clung to her, making the room spin and blur - no, not a room, a tent, and she was wrapped in blankets tight enough to be uncomfortable.

It was the third night in a row she'd woken like this, and she was becoming tired of it.

With difficulty she unwound the blankets from her legs and scrambled around for her trousers, impatiently raking her hair back from her face. The tent was suddenly far too hot and cramped, and she almost tripped in her haste to get outside.

The night air hit her as soon as she stepped outside, and she welcomed its coldness on her sweaty skin.

Mother's hands had always been cool, she remembered with a sudden pang of grief. As a child she'd had nightmares from time to time, and she'd wake in terror to feel that soothing touch on her forehead, and cool fingers combing through her hair. Comforting words, and a quiet song that meant all was well.

Eilin fisted her hands in her hair and let out a frustrated sigh. Anything that didn't involve sleeping at this time of night was technically pointless, especially standing outside one's tent looking like a fool.

"Warden?"

Of course she'd forgotten about Wynne being on watch.

The old mage was sitting on a tree stump by the campfire with a dog-eared book in her lap, and Alistair sat a few feet away with his sword resting on his knees.

"I see you can't sleep either," he said.

Eilin shrugged, pulling one of the logs further away from the fire and seating herself. "It happens."

"Alistair was just telling me how he became a Grey Warden." Wynne put the book aside. "How did you become a Warden? I'd like to hear the tale, if you're willing."

"You don't really want to know, do you?" Eilin said lightly. "It's not as exciting as Alistair's story, I'm sure."

"Definitely not," Alistair said, and she grinned.

"I'm sure that's not true. I'd be glad to hear it, if you'll indulge an old woman's curiosity."

There was no way of getting out of this, evidently. Eilin moved closer to the fire and hunkered down against the wind, which was cooling her a little faster than she'd like.

"I came from Highever," she said eventually, "on the north coast. My family was...well, I suppose you could say they were wealthy." She shot a glance at Alistair through her eyelashes, watching for a reaction, but he said nothing.

"The Commander of the Grey, Duncan, he came to the town seeking recruits. My father knew him. He was going to test Ro-Ser Gilmore. A friend of mine. He ended up leaving with me instead."

Wynne nodded thoughtfully. "Was there any particular reason why this Duncan could not take both of you?"

Eilin's gut twisted painfully as the last glimpse of her childhood friend flashed through her mind, and she closed her eyes.

"He died," she said in a voice that sounded foreign to her.

"I see." Wynne tapped her hands on her chin thoughtfully. "I get the feeling there is more to it. Will you tell me how he died?"

"Yes," Eilin said reluctantly. With a sigh, she began to recount the tale from the appearance of Duncan in Highever.

It wasn't as difficult as she'd thought. The story seemed like it had happened to someone else at some obscure place and time in history, and keeping that thought in mind made it a lot easier to talk about it.

"The arl of Amaranthine?" Wynne murmured, as she finished. "Why would he do such a thing to your family?"

"Who knows," Eilin said bitterly, throwing a stick into the fire. "The Howes were vassals to the Couslands. He was one of my father's oldest friends."

"You are the last of the Couslands?"

"I am."

"My lady - "

"Don't," Eilin said. "I'm not a lady. I'm a Grey Warden, and it doesn't matter what I used to be, I am now nothing." She stood up. "I think I'm going back to sleep."

"Eilin -"

"Don't. _Please_."

Her voice must have betrayed her, for Wynne said nothing more, and Eilin went back to her tent, to the darkness and the warmth and her own thoughts. So much for banishing the nightmares.


	15. O is for Oren

"He's tiny," is the first thing she says when she sees him.

It's true that he is tiny. He's also red-faced and sleepy, blinking around at the family with big eyes, tiny fingers clenching on his swaddling clothes.

It's not the first time she's seen a babe, of course. She's seen Bann Franderel's youngest the year before, and there are mothers in the markets all the time. But there's never been anyone younger than her in the family; she was the baby, up until Oriana and Oren made the announcement. And now...

"Of course he's tiny," Fergus says good-naturedly. He's sitting next to Oriana with his arm around her, his hand on the boy's head. His fingers touch the soft thatch of hair with more care than she's ever seen from him. "He's a babe."

Eilin gives him a withering look. "I know that! I'm not stupid."

Fergus just grins.

Oriana is silent as she holds the child in her arms, her head bent over his, and Eilin watches her curiously.

"My love," Fergus murmurs, and squeezes his wife's shoulder. She leans against him, arranging the tangle of blankets around Oren.

"Can I hold him?" Eilin asks after a moment.

"If you're careful," Oriana says, and she scoots closer.

He's heavier than she expected, and more alert. His eyes follow her movements as she carefully gathers him into her arms, sitting as far back on the bench as she can. Her legs dangle high over the sides, but her back is straight against the rough stone wall.

"He's got eyes like mine," she says, and leans over him until they're almost nose to nose. Oren blinks, his lips pursing.

"Darker than yours." Fergus sits next to Eilin, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "They'll look like mine when he's older, Mother reckons." He glanced up. "And speak of the-"

"Fergus," Oriana says sharply, but Fergus just laughs. Mother leans against the wall near the door, and Father stands beside her. Both have already seen him, of course, when Eilin had been at her lessons.

"What does she think?" Mother asks Fergus in a voice laced with amusement.

"She's in love," says Fergus, and messes Eilin's hair with his free hand.

Eilin raises her head to glare at him, but her retort flees her mind when tiny fingers curl around her palm. She bends over Oren again, and thinks that maybe, just the once, Fergus might be right.


	16. P is for Proving

"I don't like this," Alistair said, for at least the tenth time since they'd come to Orzammar, and Eilin rolled her eyes.

It wasn't as if she disagreed exactly. In truth, she had little issue with the city itself. It was the politics that were the problem, and she was beginning to understand why her parents insisted on keeping her out of court for so long. She'd had a taste of it at fourteen, and that was more than enough for her.

Quickly she'd learned dwarven politics were nothing like the king's court, and far more brutal in comparison. As an outsider it wasn't her place to judge them, and as a Grey Warden it wasn't her place to get involved in their power struggles.

That, she reflected, was far easier said than done.

"I do," Eilin said cheerfully, just to see the withering look Alistair gave her. "Alright, not really, but I think this is a good idea all the same."

"Entering some tournament full of dwarves all eager to prove themselves to their house - caste - whatever. And you think that's a good idea?"

"Well, it's not called the Proving for nothing," she replied, and tightened her belt. She drew her dagger and held it up to the light, inspecting the blade for scratches and rust. "Dwarves admire strength and cunning equally, don't they? I need to show them the strength and the cunning of the Grey Wardens. This is a good opportunity."

Alistair cast a dubious glance at the double doors at the far side of the room, to where the roar of the crowd sounded faintly.

"Are you entering in Bhelen's name?" he said finally.

"No." She flipped her dagger, running her thumb across the blade until it grazed the flesh. She sheathed the dagger and wiped the small beads of blood on her tunic, then prodded him on the shoulder. "I just told you I wanted to fight on the Grey Wardens' behalf."

He looked confused. "But you've been doing Bhelen's work all this time, I thought..."

"Bhelen could do with a reminder of who exactly is helping him," Eilin said dryly, grimacing. She didn't need reminding of what the Aeducan prince had asked of her so far. "Besides, it'll be fun. You think it's the first time I've been in a tournament?"

"Knowing you, the answer is no," Alistair said, and messed her hair. She smacked his hand away, laughing.

"I entered one in Highever once, under a pseudonym," she said in a half-whisper, eyes shining. "I came third place. I won my second in Denerim, but I didn't disguise myself that time. So no, it's not my first tournament."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Stop worrying, Alistair," Leliana said suddenly, making both of them jump. She looked up from

the book in her hands, regarding him with an air of vague amusement. "Eilin is more than capable of taking on any of the opponents in this Proving."

"I - that's not the problem."

Eilin raised her eyebrows. Knowing him as she did, she guessed an explanation would be forthcoming.

As she'd predicted he shrugged and said, "Do you remember how you told me you didn't need to prove yourself to the soldiers, when we were at Ostagar?"

"That was different," Eilin said. "I could live without having the respect of men who don't know me."

Alistair looked exasperated. "Bhelen doesn't know you either."

"How many men at Ostagar were kings?" When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up one finger. "I didn't care about impressing Cailan, nor did I need to. Bhelen has a lot of power and influence in this city. Sometimes it's not enough to simply know your worth. If I have to knock a few heads to get this damn treaty looked at, well, I'll just have to make a good show of it, won't I?"

Alistair fell silent, and sat down next to Leliana, who patted his arm.

"Sometimes it's not easy to do a thing you don't want to, but it will be worth it in the end," she said. "Now come, and take me to the arena. We would be poor friends indeed if we did not watch, no?"


	17. Q is for Queen

The crown was heavier than she expected.

In truth, she didn't start thinking too much about the reality of her situation until the furore in Denerim died die down, and people began to trickle back into city. Until the darkspawn had fled underground, and she'd been allowed out of bed with only a slight limp and a side full of stitches. And then there was the endless procession of nobles, and ambassadors, and soldiers. There was clearing debris from dusk til dawn, until her arms ached and the sweat stung her wounds. There were endless hours sitting in court by Alistair's side, murmuring names and suggestions. There was his coronation, and there was the wedding.

The crown felt ridiculous perched precariously on top of her head, and throughout her own coronation she had to force herself not to adjust it constantly. She could tell Alistair had the same thoughts; during the ceremony he stared straight ahead with a look of intense concentration, like he was trying very hard to stay awake. It made her want to laugh with the absurdity of it all.

After the ceremony she sat in the drawing room, feeling more out of place than ever. The chair was soft under her, but it may as well been made of wood for all the comfort it brought. She fidgeted constantly, hands twisting in her skirts, and occasionally shooting a glance at Fergus.

"Queen of Ferelden, eh?" he said, catching her eye.

"Queen of Ferelden," Eilin repeated, with an attempt to smile. "Mother would have been proud."

Her brother snorted; Mother's ambition was an old joke between them.

"Will you return to Highever soon?" she said tentatively, when he said nothing further.

"I might stay for another week." Fergus stretched, fiddling with the ring on his finger - Father's signet ring, she'd seen it enough times. "Just to keep you out of trouble."

Eilin laughed. "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime, I think. Now's the time for rebuilding, and ruling, and..." she didn't say 'heirs', but her brother smirked knowingly.

"Was it worth it?" he asked, his smile fading. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't have to. The Landsmeet was still fresh in her mind - it'd been six months, but it may as well have been yesterday.

Eilin glanced towards the fire where Alistair sat in a chair, his legs splayed out in front of him. He glanced up, caught her eye and smiled.

"Yes," she said. "It was worth it."


	18. R is for Rory

The tavern was smoky and too hot for her taste, but her desire to be undisturbed kept her head covered as much as her unwillingness to be discovered.

She had no idea how many people might recognise the teyrn's daughter, and she didn't want to find out. It was miracle enough that she could be here at all, albeit in disguise.

She knew Rory would find her eventually, so she wasn't surprised at all to see his bright mop of hair among the dirty brown and blonde. Armed soldiers were not an uncommon sight, but she doubted anyone would mistake him for the city guard.

"Hello, Rory," she said as he came up behind her. "Did you miss me?"

He leaned against her chair, mouth close to her ear. "My lady, you shouldn't be here."

"I'm in the middle of a card game," Eilin said, and nodded to the man sitting opposite. "Draw."

She could almost feel Rory's disapproval, but it wasn't the first time he'd caught her like this, or even the first time she'd come to this tavern.

It was a few minutes before his courage won out, and he touched her shoulder.

"Your father will be missing you, Lady Eilin. We must leave."

She threw him a murderous look, but her opponent had already looked up with a spark of interest.

"Ser Gilmore," she said in an undertone, not troubling to hide her irritation. "Wait outside for me."

"But -"

"Go."

He didn't have to wait long; she came out of the tavern in ten minutes and pulled off her hood, scowling at him.

"You have to stop doing this!" she snapped at him, as they began the trek back to the castle. "It's becoming tiresome."

"I'm your friend, my lady," Rory said. "I was concerned."

"Friends don't call each other my lady," she pointed out. "I have a name. It's perfectly serviceable, and even if I'd prefer you didn't call me that when I'm out in the city, it's still my name. Since when have you ever called me a lady, anyway?"

"Since you became one."

The look on his face made her pause. And when he moved towards her, she took a step back, shaking her head.

"Don't," she said softly.

Rory let his hand fall.

"You know that this - us - that can never happen."

"Because your father would never allow it?" he replied, smiling ruefully.

"Because I won't allow it," Eilin said, and squeezed his hand. "You're a good man, Rory, but you're my friend and that's all."

"I understand."

"And that's why you're my friend." She let go of his hand and stepped away. "Race you to the gate."


End file.
